


I'll Believe in Anything

by 17603



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Everyone Is Gay, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, cop Larry, damaged people, mentions of abuse, rent boy Freddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17603/pseuds/17603
Summary: The one where Larry is a cop and Freddy is both trouble and in trouble.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 217





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Little_Cello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Cello/gifts).



> Title from a Wolf Parade song.

He first picks him up for vandalism. No charges are pressed, he just has to clean up, so it all solves itself nice and easy, but it sticks in Larry's head. Kid's fifteen if he's a day but has no ID, looks real scared when Larry's hand comes down on his shoulder, and when he turns out his backpack, he's got comics and a sketchbook and dozens of dirty pencil stubs. Little nerd. He says he found the spraypaint cans, and Larry believes him because they're all the same cheap blue and he's got no fancy caps, no markers, no boxcutter, no bandanna to cover his nose and mouth.

He sits at the station and eyes the vending machine til Larry cracks and buys him a coke and a candy bar because the kid's too skinny, never mind Pink sniffing that he's got soft. Reading the record later, the kid's written his age as seventeen. Huh. Go figure. He's probably not lying because the name matches the one written on the cover of his sketchbook in comic book sound effect letters: Freddy, exclamation point.

A week later he happens to drive past the wall again. It's clean, well, cleanish, and he assumes that's the last of it.

Larry's never moved up through the ranks (everyone knows why), still on the beat at his age but what the hell, he's not unhappy. He gets called to a domestic disturbance one evening, proper fight, and while the others are inside subduing mom (drunk, maybe on drugs) and pop (drunk), he goes to talk to the bloody-nosed, black-eyed kid one of the neighbours is fussing over. And guess who it is.  
"You again?" He asks, and Freddy gives him a little smile and the neighbour eyes him suspiciously but softens when Larry just pats his shoulder and sits next to him on the curb with his notebook. He takes a statement and then takes the kid to go get some food. It's the end of his shift and they're not far from his usual taco place, and from the state of the house and the family, he's not getting fed much at home.

He sees Freddy around, the kid gets a job at the market unloading crates and sweeping up, typical weekend highschool bullshit except he seems to be there a lot more than someone who's getting an education should be. He smiles at Larry and Larry smiles back, and sometimes that's hard when Freddy has a cut up face or black eyes or is moving real awkward, but shit, life's like that and there's not much he can do about it. They get lunch from time to time too - nothing weird, the kid's too thin and so obviously lonely, he demolishes any food that's put in front of him and chatters like a songbird, just seems delighted to have someone who's listening. One day he's not there though, and the next and the next, and a casual inquiry about the little white kid gets him shrugs and silence.

One rare rainy afternoon he gets called from the desk where he's filling in his ticket log for the month, there's a perp in one of the interview rooms who says he knows him, wants to talk to him. Pink, bored as fuck, trails after him. Larry sure isn't expecting to find Freddy sitting there, still clutching that raggedy backpack, bruises yellow on his cheekbone and red around the eyes. One of his arms, his right, is curled up to his chest all funny, tucked under his open plaid shirt. Larry tells Pink to go, don't worry about it, he'll handle this, and sits down at the table. He offers the kid a smoke and watches him fumble it with his left hand, and when he asks to see his right hand he just stares at the table. Larry asks a few more questions before he gets up and walks around, keeps it casual until he reaches out quick and tweaks the baggy flannel away. He feels like a bastard when Freddy flinches so hard he almost falls off his chair, arms going up to protect his face. When Larry sees the black and blue mess of a hand he whistles soundlessly through his teeth and says "so that's why you haven't been at work".  
Freddy gets all sullen, shrugs deep into his jacket and says "didn't know you were checking up on me, I'm not a criminal."  
Larry laughs and reminds him he's currently sitting in this room because he got busted for stealing...checks the record...crackers and a candy bar.

Fucksake.

Pink eyeballs him as they leave but makes no move to follow. He's got his own stack of paperwork, but Larry knows he'll come back to find his done too. He's a good partner, acts like a sour little bastard but he's not really. Not to Larry, at least.

Larry takes Freddy to the hospital in his own car and they sit in the ER for a good forty five minutes until he goes up and blusters a little, smiles at the intake nurse and lays it on thick that he's not waiting with a crim, you see any cuffs, he's got a kid from a domestic and could someone please come x-ray this hand before it fucken falls off. Freddy stares at him and whispers "you lied" like a question but he looks so hopeful that Larry just laughs and ruffles his hair. They're there for hours, he's got a cracked rib too, and the doctor plasters up his hand without asking more than once why he didn't come in when it happened. Apparently it's almost three days old, apparently he fell getting off the bus. Apparently that isn't what happens when you slam a door on someone's hand, not at all.

To his credit, the doctor does not even pretend to believe any of this bullshit for one second, but he probably assumes the uniformed cop's got it handled. It's a busy ER, too busy to care if someone else already does. Larry can relate, he's handed enough kids over to social workers or relatives or even neighbours without thinking twice. Freddy sits there in just his jeans looking utterly humiliated, but when Larry offers to wait outside, he shakes his head so hard his teeth probably rattle.  
"Stay?" He almost whispers, darting his eyes around. The doctor pretends not to be listening.  
Larry squeezes his shoulder. "Right here, kid."

The hand is busted (no shit) and Freddy looks absolutely glum at the news. When they're leaving he hangs back, and Larry isn't meant to hear him ask the doctor if he'll be able to draw again, and hearing the quiet "I can't say, but it's unlikely" feels like a kick in the chest. Freddy drops his entire backpack into the trash can outside the hospital doors (Larry fishes it out as he walks past) and stands on the curb looking lost and, for once, older than he is. He's silent the whole ride, gives Larry an intersection to drop him off at instead of an address, and neither of them say anything until Larry catches his eye at a traffic light and Freddy whispers "I was gonna be a comic artist" before jumping out and running. The light goes green and he's got no choice but to move forwards, and by the time he circles back, the kid's vanished.

Yeah he worries about him. Every time he sees the backpack sitting in the rear footwell of his car, he wonders where he is and what he's doing. If he got a new sketchbook. If he can even hold a pencil. For sure Pink sees it when Larry gives him a lift home sometimes, for sure he recognises it because he's sharp enough to cut himself (ongoing argument: you'd be a good detective, response: I'd rather die under a bridge), but he never says anything about it.

Larry never looks in the bag. He's just keeping it safe.

He next sees Freddy when they're called to a fight outside a bar five months later. He hardly recognises him, he's got short cropped hair and is painfully skinny, wearing a leather jacket and white singlet that would look tough on a guy with more muscle but just emphasises how fuckin slight this kid is. His eyes are sunken and sullen, but they widen when he recognises Larry, his face goes softer and scared, like the kid he caught almost a year ago now.

The fight was over some dimebag or someshit, Freddy's probably been dealing (badly from the looks of things; he's more eyelash than muscle, more flinch than fight, and still too naive to be scum) and the account of why it came to blows is garbled, but Larry sits him on the stoop of the shop next door and gives him a minute. Blood's running down his forehead and clumping his eyelashes, and him scrubbing at it with his hands is just making things worse. He fishes out a clean handkerchief and wipes the kid's face, holds his jaw steady while he checks the cut at his hairline. Scalp wounds bleed like crazy, but this won't even need stitches.

Once that's under control, he asks to see his hand. Freddy's still holding it close, a bit awkward, and when he uncurls it's crooked but doesn't look too bad.  
"How'd it heal," Larry says, more to get him talking than anything, but all he gets is a shrug. "Can you draw?"  
Freddy looks away. There's an old yellow bruise on his jaw. "Haven't tried."

He's dirty, kinda smells like he's been sleeping rough, and blood's soaking into that grimy undershirt. LA winters aren't harsh at all, not like Milwaukee, but when the sun goes down it's chilly enough, especially if you don't have anywhere to go. He gets shit about being a soft touch from some of the guys (who think he's fair game because he's still low on the beat at his age), Pink bitches about him being too easy on the bastard kids they're forever hauling in, but Larry knows Pink was one of those bastard kids ten years ago, knows that someone took pity on him and saw the ferrety brain behind the crooked face, set him straight instead of dumping him from foster care to streets to prison and back again. Freddy's on the edge of things, with eyes that still can go soft and no track marks on his arm yet. The smart sad ones always go for heroin.  
"Get in the car," he says. Pink, who is taking a statement from the bar owner, can fuckin deal with it.

He does deal with it, and with more grace than Larry expected - no snide comments, remembers Freddy's name, asks him how his hand is, doesn't bring up the fight, and only gives Larry that pop-eyed accusatory stare once, when he's sure the kid won't see. The station is dead and the locker rooms are empty, thank god for quiet nights, and Larry goes off to find some clean clothing while the kid showers. When he comes back, Freddy is wrapped in two towels, bare feet scuffing the tiles while Pink tapes up the cut on his head with little plastic butterfly bandages. They're talking quietly and he doesn't look scared, and there's an inexplicable twist-stab in Larry's chest when the kid giggles and Pink grins back, not as sardonic as usual. He hasn't found much; some fresh socks and shorts, a button-down that might fit, and some old uniform blue trousers. On a whim, he digs through his own locker and pulls out his sweater. It's gonna be too big, miles too big, but it's been washed soft over the years and it's warm.  
"Got you some clean clothes," he says, voice echoing off the metal and tile, and they both look up, Pink smirking at him over the kid's head. While he vanishes into a cubicle to change, Pink packs up the first aid kit, and when it's all squared away he squares up too and hisses "that's your sweater, isn't it, you fucken sap."  
Larry has no response beyond punching him in the arm a little harder than is jokey.  
"Be fucken careful," Pink says, but there's no venom and he looks a little hunted, like the kid in the mugshot that's sealed in his own file, and he's out the door just as Freddy comes back.

He's swimming in the sweater, cuffs hanging out the sleeves of his leather jacket, but the trousers fit okay and, well, socks are socks. Larry can't help himself, he reaches out to straighten the collar of the shirt, ignores how the kid twitches and smooths out the lapels of the jacket over that narrow chest. No one's probably ever done this shit for him, he looks at every hand like it's gonna smack him around, and it'd break Larry's heart if he hadn't met a dozen or more just like him every week since becoming a cop. He has, he's seen way worse too, but something still aches behind his ribs.  
"Come on," he says, "time to go home."  
The kid goes muleish, stares at his feet in ratty sneakers and kicks a toe against an uneven tile. "I can get the bus."  
It's almost midnight, the bus ain't going nowhere, and when Larry says as much, he shrugs and mutters something about walking.  
"If you can wait fifteen minutes, I'll give you a ride," he offers, "anywhere you like." The kid gives him a cheeky grin, so he adds "in LA," and feels his own smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Without really thinking about it, he opens his locker and fishes out his civvies, undoes his uniform shirt and sprays himself down with deodorant. He doesn't realise that he's basically stripped down in front of this kid, technically a perp, until he realises that he's gone bright red and is staring. Self-conscious in a way he's never been in the locker room, aware of every scar and tattoo and how hairy his torso is, how old he looks, how ripped he isn't, Larry shrugs on his Hawaiian shirt and decides to leave his uniform trousers. Just this time.

By the time he turns back, buttoning up his jacket, Freddy's looked away, but his ears are still red. Larry's not sure what to make of it, so he doesn't make anything of it at all.

The kid is cagey about his address, cagey about everything, and Larry kinda wants to talk to him anyway, so they end up in an all night diner where the waitresses know him and the round booths let him sit near enough to talk low without having to lean over the table or box him in. He's clearly starving, wolfing down pancakes and eventually stealing Larry's fries and giving him a big goofy grin when he's caught. The years melt off, even with the too-short hair, even though he still favours his left hand.

They chat about nothing much, it's easy and Freddy's smart, funny too in a nervous way, laughing like he's scared whatever's made him happy will be snatched away. It probably has in the past. His canine teeth are too pointy, needle-sharp puppy teeth, and he blinks up at Larry when he smiles, flushes when Larry laughs at his jokes, and doesn't shy away when their elbows bump.  
"Show me that hand," Larry says eventually, almost in his best no-nonsense voice but quieter, gentler. It's still a command and Freddy obeys, lays his right wrist in Larry's upturned palm like it's an object apart from himself, like it's made of glass and already cracking. "Does it hurt?" He turns it this and that way, rubs his thumbs across the knuckles.  
Shrug. "It's kinda stiff sometimes."  
"When it's cold?" Metacarpals move like piano keys as he manipulates the palm, coaxes the fingers out straight. The muscles are knotty and tight, but Freddy doesn't wince or shift, just sighs, eyes drifting shut.

Larry rubs the small, cold hand, pushes his sleeve up to press on the tendons on the inside of his wrist, takes in the bitten nails and small round bruises on his forearm, the healing graze on his palm, watches his face go slack and his eyes roll up a little. One skinny leg presses tentatively against his and Larry remembers he is sitting in his favourite local diner with a possibly underage criminal, holding his hand while he wears his sweater.

Larry keeps working on his hand til the skin is warm, stretches his fingers, gently bends them back. "Make a fist," he says, and Freddy does, flexing his hand slowly. "Does that hurt?"  
He shakes his head and gives a tiny smile, rolling his wrist.  
Larry pulls out his notebook from his trouser pocket and unclips the pen, hands it to the kid. "Try it," he says and hands it over, wiggles it at him when he gets all reticent and pretends to concentrate on his cigarette packet while he watches the small secretive smile spread over the thin face.

While the kid is scratching away, Larry pays the bill and finishes his cooling coffee. When he stands up to leave, Freddy shoves his sleeves up and scampers after him, then pauses after two steps and goes back, fishing around in his pockets. When he joins Larry on the concrete steps outside the doors, tucked under a little metal awning, he goes pink at the questioning glance.  
"I forgot to tip," he says defiantly, like he's daring him to say something. Chin up, yellow light from the sign that says we never close spilling over his cheekbones and into the hollows of his face.  
"I tipped when I paid the bill," Larry tells him mildly, torn between pissed off at the lack of self preservation and impressed, "I tipped good too. I come here all the time, Estelle and I go way back."  
Freddy doesn't back away, but his shoulders come up and his eyes go down. He's bright red now. "She was nice," he mumbles, and doesn't shrink from Larry's hand on his shoulder when he offers to drive him home, leans into it even, follows him to the car in silence.  
Before he gets in, Freddy looks up at him and says "this is your sweater, isn't it?"  
It's an innocent enough question, but Larry's instincts light up like a Vegas marquee and he hedges the answer. "Why'd you figure that?"  
"It smells like you," the kid says, and he realises what Pink might have meant when he said to be careful.

The junction he gives Larry is the same one as last time and quiet weighs on them during the drive. Larry puts the heat on, which he wouldn't usually, and watches him warm his fingers over the vents out of the corner of his eye. He wants to say something, he should say something, no one else is going to say it, no one else has ever cared to say it.  
"Don't throw your future away," bursts out of his mouth at a red light about three blocks from where he asked to be dropped off. It's not the right thing to say and god knows he's hypocrite enough for saying it because he never planned to be a fucking cop, not really, but time was ticking down and silence was too much.  
Freddy just gives him a look of utter defeat and says "what future" before opening the car door and hopping out, ignoring Larry's yells to come back. The lights don't change for a good fifteen seconds, he's in the middle lane and can't pull over, and the last he sees of the kid is a tiny silhouette backlit by a 24 hour laundromat, scrubbing at his eyes with his clumsy left hand.

When he gets back to his apartment, he finds his notebook in the center console when the cab light comes on. Whatever he was expecting to find in there, it wasn't a scratchy sketch of himself smiling, not realism but better, a cartoon with a square jaw and goofy palm trees all over his shirt. Larry sits there and stares at it until he's not really seeing it any more, mind drifting until another car pulls into the lot and snaps him out of it.

Spring and summer are quiet. Larry doesn't see hide nor hair of Freddy.

Well, that's not quite true.

He asks a few of the guys to keep an eye out and one day he gets told that they had him in there the day before, Larry's day off, for possibly soliciting. He wasn't on his own apparently, brought in with a little group of em they picked up over an evening in West Hollywood, but when he checks the record, the only male name on there is Peter Parker, so that's a dead end. Summer oozes past and twice Larry thinks he saw him on a street corner, but always when traffic is moving too fast to stop. It could be his imagination, wouldn't be the first time he was looking for a familiar face only to find it on a stranger.

Alabama was a long time ago though, back when he was pushing that man-woman thing. It never stuck, but he thinks it might have for her. They were young then, and plenty fucking stupid. Now he's a cop in LA and wouldn't she laugh herself sick if she knew.

She'd probably like Freddy though.

Pink comes slamming into the locker room in when he's in the middle of one of these trains of thought and says "if your little pal Freddy's not careful, he's gonna be picked up again for hooking" and then explains patronisingly exactly who Peter Parker is, it's a fake name stolen from a comic book character you old fucken man.

Oh, she'd definitely like Pink.

Larry doesn't go out (like, proper out, to those places) much but he's been so cagey lately that one thursday night he does, goes to a bar he knows of way out in Long Beach. Hasn't been there for a while, it's scummy but, well, he's not pretty enough for the upmarket places, wouldn't know what to do with himself there, feels awkward and out of place. This joint might be a dirty pickup venue with guys fucking in the alleyway or under the pier, but...it's not intimidating. He's not exactly comfortable here, but everyone's standards are low enough that he can get something usually. Probably.

It's still hot at night, not yet trailing off into the cooler breezes of fall and he doesn't need a jacket over his shirt. A skinny boy with a baby face and poor English skills, he was Vietnamese or maybe Chinese, god it was years ago now, once touched his wrist with both hands, ran his fingers through the hair on his forearm and said he liked Larry's arms, that he looked strong. Larry proved how strong he was by holding him up against a wall while he kissed him, long lean legs wrapped around his waist, and now he wears short sleeves as much as possible and doesn't think about how that was the first and last compliment he has ever received about his appearance. He just goes to a few of the right bars and tries not to have any standards, and doesn't bother wanting what he can't have and it all more or less works. Except it doesn't, and if he's honest, maybe it never really has.

The music isn't too loud, but it's dim and crowded and a haze of smoke hangs over it, and Larry's leaning on the bar sipping a mediocre beer, scoping out the other patrons when he sees a young guy leaning on the wall by the pool tables. From the back, he's small and slight, with floppy hair and jeans too loose to really show off what is probably a fantastic ass, and there's an orange bandana messily folded and hanging out of his back right pocket. 

Up for anything, please lead me. Perfect.

There's something familiar about the way he cocks his hip and tilts his head, maybe Larry's seen him before or maybe he's just imagining it. It's not worth worrying about, it doesn't matter, he'll never see him again after tonight. First rejection of the evening, gotta get it out of the way so when he scrapes the barrel later tonight he won't be worrying about might have beens, so he saunters over, gets kinda close behind him, close enough that the guy freezes, and says "how's your night going, Mister Orange?"

He's expecting a lot of things; a slow turn and a sneer, indifferent shrugging, even a toothy smile that means Larry's gonna be buying him a drink and watching him leave with one of the leather muscle men or some twink. He's not expecting Freddy to be staring ever so slightly up at him, abject terror on his narrow face.  
"Officer Dimmick," he squeaks, backing away. Larry gapes, offers of a drink or a smoke dying in his mouth and choking up his throat. Freddy turns and bolts, ducking through the crowd, and he's out the door before Larry can even formulate the question of what the fuck are they doing letting goddamn minors into this fucking bar.

Suddenly, he doesn't want anyone to touch him, the thought of a hookup with any of the sweaty bodies shooting pool or drinking or just plain old prowling in the smoke-haze is repulsive, and he just feels like a pathetic old bastard. He just touched a kid, yeah it was on the arm but he was thinking about fucking him, yeah he didn't know who it was and it might have just as easily been some hard-faced thirty something with muscles made of wire and eyes like fires lit in empty rooms. And that would have been better, because he's too ugly and damaged for anything he thinks he might want, out of place in a Hawaiian shirt amongst the leather jackets and tight jeans, fishnet shirts and muscle-stretched singlets. Fuck this.

Larry leaves what's left of his beer on the edge of the bar as he goes past, shoulders gently through the crowd and is out the door into the cooling night before he really thinks about it.

He's so fucking angry, with Freddy and himself and everything, maybe himself most of all for not grabbing the kid when he had the chance, after spending all summer looking for him and failing, after not twigging to the fake name bullshit and being down in West Hollywood the next day, for just not knowing what to fucking say to him in the first place. He's ready to smash something, stomping up the alleyway towards the street where he parked and almost hoping someone will try and jump him so he can break their nose, when movement catches his eye. It's Freddy, hunching between an AC unit and a graffitied dumpster.

Before he can stop himself, he's boxed him in, got him by the front of his jacket and pushing him against the wall, growling "what the fuck do you think you're doing" right into the scared, scared face.  
Freddy just makes a whining noise and freezes. Larry's heart is going like a meth addict after a cockroach with a fuckin hammer, he's never been so angry and terrified and disappointed and relieved and he feels like he is watching things from outside his body as he yells.  
"What the fuck you doing in there, i've been looking for you for fuckin months and this is where you turn up," he half-yells. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is, you fucking idiot, first the dealing and now you're a goddamn rent boy, you're fucking seventeen for fucksake."

He takes a deep breath and is about to continue when he realises the kid is absolutely shaking with fear, cowering like Larry's gonna hit him, like it's Freddy he wants to kill and not everyone else, starting with whoever gave him the shadowy bruises around his skinny neck. Feeling like a complete fucking bastard, he lets go of the front of Freddy's jacket and steps back a bit, off to the side with one hand flat against the wall so Freddy could slip out and away if he wants. All the kid does is slide down the weatherboard wall a bit, he doesn't try and run.

The rage melts away as suddenly as it came on and all Larry can think is that he's a cop yelling at a damaged child in a seedy filthy alleyway after trying to pick him up in order to have sex with him. He's a fucking awful person and what's worse is that he just wants to pull him into his arms and ask him how his hand is, why he never asked for help, why he ran away and didn't come back. He settles for keeping his hands to himself and saying "do you have any fuckin clue how worried i've been?"  
Freddy shakes his head.  
"You fuckin idiot," Larry sighs, "you little fuckin idiot."

A hand comes down on Larry's shoulder and a voice says "is this prick bothering you?"

Two guys are standing behind them, one kinda fat in a nylon sports jacket with curly blond hair and the other just real tall and quiffed, greaser hair and hard eyes. Larry's gonna fuckin die, he knows it, because if it was him pulling some old creep off a maybe-crying kid in a dark alley, the creep would be dead.  
"No," Freddy says, loud and sudden, grabs Larry by the front of his shirt and kisses him hard on the mouth.

The hand on his back pats him once twice then retreats, and the two guys walk off chuckling down the alley, but Larry could have been teleported to the surface of the moon for all he knows, because Freddy's pressed up against his chest and licking inside his mouth.

Larry doesn't close his eyes, but Freddy does.

He grabs Freddy by the arms and pushes him back, ignores his tingling mouth and the warmth spreading outwards from his chest, because he's a responsible goddamn adult and he refuses to have any part of corrupting a goddamn minor. Freddy still looks scared in the half light, but like he's ready to fight now. Good.  
"We can't do that," Larry hisses, and it comes out closer to a question than he'd like.  
Freddy scowls. "Why not?"  
"You're underage."  
Now the kid just looks smug. "I'm not. Not any more."  
This is not going anywhere good, and the little bastard doesn't seem to realise just how dangerous this is, how much fucking trouble he could and probably has gotten in. He's smirking up at Larry, maybe he's high out of his mind, fuck knows, but he pulls out a little stack of ID cards and rifles through until he finds the one he wants and holds it up in front of Larry's face.

It's an expired driving permit for Freddy Newendyke, almost 19.

Larry grabs the little handful of cards and flicks through them. They're variations on a theme; two Edwards and a Fred from Nevada, a Thomas from Idaho, and a New York one claiming the name Peter Parker, all between twenty one and twenty five, none of the photos very good quality but probably enough to pass muster if the person checking doesn't actually care. He puts them in his pocket and leans in close again. It's gratifying to see the smirk falter.  
"You're coming with me, kid," he says, because even though he's broadly a good man, sometimes he isn't a nice man, and Freddy has no fucking right to look so unconcerned by all this, so utterly convinced of his own invincibility.  
"Am I under arrest?" he's trying to be cool but his voice shakes, and there's the soft underbelly in his eyes again.  
Larry shakes his head, because even though he should, he's not going to. He's going to look after him like someone should have been all along, even if it's just for an evening.

"Nah, I thought we might get some tacos or something."  
Freddy smiles, sudden and brilliant. "Can we get pancakes? Like last time?"  
"Sure kid," Larry tells him, "same as last time."

He is so fucked.

Freddy reaches under the dumpster and pulls out a black backpack, could be the twin of the one sitting in Larry's car, and hitches it over one shoulder. Unwilling to give him a chance to run off again, Larry rests one hand in the small of his back as they walk down quiet streets, and it slips to an arm around his waist when Freddy deliberately walks closer. He doesn't take it away, even though he should, not until he unlocks the car doors and Freddy's clambered in. Before he gets into the driver's seat, he draws a deep breath and reminds himself that he's a fucking idiot. Not for any particular reason, just in general, and he lets Freddy pick the radio station as penance for this.

They don't chat a lot on the drive. Freddy's evasive about where he's been, Larry doesn't let on that he knows about Peter Parker's arrest for soliciting. He'll save that for later, or maybe the kid's guessed he knows already - he's smart enough under all that dumbass behaviour.  
"I've been looking for you," Larry tells him instead, and pretends it doesn't sound pathetic. "Been real worried about you."  
Freddy looks up like Larry's hit him. "Why?"  
"Because I have been, kept thinking you were gonna turn up dead under a freeway or someshit. You're giving me grey hairs, kid."  
"Why'd you even care?"  
Larry's got a bunch of answers for that and none of them are the right one, so he shrugs and says "I just do," and the conversation trails off for a while, til he can't keep from commenting on the awful fuckin shit on the radio - and it is, but Freddy laughs and turns it up, sings along, and he doesn't really mind it much at all.

When they get to the diner, Freddy sits too close to him, their legs pressed together, leans on his shoulder while they wait for their orders, and under the warm yellow lights he looks like hell. Larry's careful not to eat his fries, leaves half his sandwich too, and peers at him out of the corner of his eye while the food vanishes. Dirty, but not his face and hands. Hair's a greasy mess, but carefully finger-combed. Hasn't shaved in at least three days, but the fine blond stubble is sparse enough that it's hard to see. The white undershirt is grey, the jacket is in comparatively good shape but it's a low point of comparison. He smells a bit too, mostly like cigarettes and stale sweat that may not even be his own.

"How's your wrist?" He asks, and Freddy plonks it in his hand without further prompting, sighing happily as Larry examines it, wiggling his fingers and running one daring thumb over Larry's knuckles. His head is tipped against Larry's shoulder and his left hand is creeping over onto his thigh.  
"Knock it off," Larry growls, but mustn't sound convincing because Freddy just grins and the hand slides down to rest above his knee. This kid's a fuckin handful.

Twenty minutes later, Freddy's nearly falling asleep sitting up and Larry's absently massaging his hand, chewing over what he's gonna do next. He gives the kid a gentle shake and says "let's get you home."  
Freddy looks at him like he's a fucking idiot, and maybe he is. "Don't have one."  
"I figured," Larry tells him, "I meant my place."  
The hand on his leg squeezes, and Freddy peers up at him from under his ridiculous hair. "I'd like that."

What the fuck is Larry getting himself into.

When they get back to Larry's place, he chases him into the shower and digs through his closet for something that won't fall off him, because he's guessing everything in that backpack is only fit to be burned. Eventually he settles on an old t-shirt that fit him a lot better in his twenties and a pair of sweatpants that at least have a drawstring, and knocks on the bathroom door.  
"I've got you some clean clothes," he calls, the water isn't on so Freddy mustn't have started or maybe even already finished, and when there's no answer, cracks the door to drop them in.

Freddy's standing with his back to the mirror, trying to peer over his own shoulder and picking at the stained white of his undershirt, peeling bits of it away from where it's stuck to his back with dried blood. Mostly dried, there's an ooze of fresh red in the middle of the rusty brown and near-black. He starts and backs away, hands up.  
"It looks worse than it is," he says, and winces when his shoulder blades hit the plaster. "I can handle it."  
Larry wants to ask him where or who the fuck that came from, then go tear them to pieces, he wants to yell at Freddy for being a dumb kid who can't take care of himself, wants to grab him and force him to stand still while Larry checks him inch by inch for other injuries he might be hiding. He doesn't though, because he's not stupid. He sets the clean clothing down on the edge of the sink and keeps his face calm. Even. He's seen worse. He doesn't need to freak out.  
"Sit, kiddo," he says, and Freddy does, watches his every move while he runs hot water into the sink and gets out a few ratty washcloths and a bottle of medical grade hydrogen peroxide. He should buy a first aid kit, but he's never had a problem that couldn't be solved with hydrogen peroxide and bandaids - at least, none that didn't also require a trip to the hospital.

"Hold still," he tells Freddy, dipping one of the washcloths in the hot water and peroxide mix and squeezing it out a little, keeping it wet enough to soak through the thin cloth. Larry hunkers down behind him and rests one hand on the back of his neck, tipping his head forward. "This might sting," he says, but he's actually pretty sure it's going to hurt like absolute fuck.

It takes a few generous applications to soak the dried blood, stop it from ripping scabs and skin when he peels the shirt up and over Freddy's head. He should have cut it off, but he's not sure where his scissors are. The kid obediently raises his arms, and once his back is bare, it's actually not as bad as it seemed, more like a scrape than a single cut. It's familiar, like a skinned knee dialled right up. After dabbing most of the blood off, he can see bits of gravel in the wound.  
"How'd this happen?" Larry asks, casual, calm.  
Freddy shrugs. "Got thrown out of a car."

Larry sees red, and the thing about Larry, the thing that no one knows but what maybe makes him such a good cop, is that he could also have been a very good criminal. And he sort of was, before Joe pulled him out of it and set him on the straight and narrow. He was older than everyone else in the academy, he was a special case. He's stopped dabbing at the cuts and Freddy looks around, sees the expression on his face and starts stammering about it not mattering and he's fine really, and all Larry can think to do to stop him is to cup his chin with one wet bloody hand and mutter "I'll fuckin kill em" which is not what he meant to say but Freddy bubbles with surprised laughter and maybe it was the right thing.

There's too much gravel in there to dig out with both of them hunched in the poorly lit bathroom, especially with Freddy nodding sleepily forwards, so he turns on the shower, peels off the filthy jeans and heaves him under the spray. There's not room for two in the tiny tiled cubicle and water goes all over the floor while he gently wipes down the rough mess of shredded skin with his bare hands, feeling grit come loose under his fingers but not wanting to rub too hard. Freddy braces an arm against the wall and tries not to make any sound while he cries, and eventually his legs give out and he ends up sitting on the floor of the shower while Larry, now soaking wet and kneeling in a puddle, gently washes his hair and tells him it's okay, he's been brave enough for one day.

When he finally gets Freddy out of the shower and into his bed, he grabs his wrist and whispers "stay" and even though Larry knows it is a terrible idea, he says he will, just let him mop up the bathroom. Staring at his own hollow-eyed face in the scratched mirror, looking every day of his age and then some, he wonders if there's going to be a special place in hell for someone who checked out the traumatised crying teenager while cleaning bitumen out of his road rash, or just a regular place with the other fuckups and perverts.

The kid looks asleep when he climbs in beside him in the dark, but as soon as he's lying down, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, cold fingers brush through his chest hair and the bed dips, bony knees bumping against his legs as Freddy moves closer. Despite his dick taking immediate interest, he ignores it, ignores the curiosity over where this might be going.

Nowhere good, that's where it's going.

The hand slides lower, but stops on his stomach. The tired mattress bounces as the kid shifts around, and in the half dark out of the corner of his eye, he can see him propping himself up on one elbow, narrow face peering down at Larry, skin striped with orange light from the streetlamps outside. He gives it a few seconds, seeing what he'll do, then rolls his head to look at him.  
"What d'you want?"  
Freddy doesn't even try to kiss him, his mouth just goes straight to Larry's chest and the hand slides down over his abdomen, and he's temporarily frozen until Freddy whispers "don't worry, I'll make it good" and that's the absolute last straw.

Rougher than he means to, Larry grabs the skinny wrist just as fingertips brush his dick, forces the hand away, rolling to press him backwards while also trying to keep space between them.  
"What the hell are you doing?" he almost snarls, even though he knows what Freddy's doing and that's why he's fucking furious. "Go to sleep."  
"I'm grateful," he murmurs, almost seductive but there's that tremor of uncertainty, his throat bared in his eyes, desperately trusting.  
"I don't want your gratitude, I want you to go to sleep."  
Instead of looking scared or even slightly chastised, Freddy juts his chin forward and narrows his eyes, says "you want it, I can tell," and grabs for Larry's dick with his free hand, rubbing at him through his boxer shorts.  
Larry nearly yells with surprise, nearly leaps out of the bed like a goddamn salmon, but only nearly. Instead, he slings a leg over the narrow hips and shoves himself upright so he's sitting on top of the kid, straddling him, grabs the other arm and holds them both above Freddy's head. He's not sure if he feels powerful or clumsy; his hands fully encircle the thin arms and he daren't put all his weight on him in case he breaks. His back arches and heels kick against the sheets, but the kid ain't going anywhere.  
"I told you to knock it off," he tells him, leaning down real close, almost nose to nose. The kid's hard, he can feel it, and worse than that he's smiling, hopeful and a little nervous, like he trusts Larry.

"You gonna make me?" Freddy says, pushing his hips up.  
Larry's had about enough of this; he wants to play games, fine, they're gonna play one that Larry has never, ever lost.  
"Maybe I will, tough guy," he says, except it comes out a shade too teasing and Freddy gives him a shy little smile and another wiggle. His arms are still pinned above his head, and nice as it would be to keep them there, Larry's gonna need both hands. His left to prop himself up, his right to grab Freddy's dick through his sweatpants and squeeze, gratified by the breathy noise. "Is this why you won't go to sleep?"  
The kid nods, head barely moving at first but increasingly violently as Larry begins slowly jerking him off through the thin fabric. His hips twitch, but he can't move much with his legs pinned. He whines, reaches for Larry, but doesn't quite touch, like he isn't sure he's allowed. After a minute or two, when he's starting to push upwards, when he's making little oh oh noises in the back of his throat, Larry leans down and pushes his shirt up, licks one of his nipples, accompanies this with a firm squeeze to his dick, and tries not to be too pleased when the kid's hands go straight to his hair, not trying to direct him or anything, just holding on.

After licking the other nipple, just for good measure, he shifts off from where he's been straddling him and slides his face down the smooth body, letting his stubble scrape and his open mouth drag. Freddy's fingers tighten in his hair and his body arcs up under his touch, and it's the best and worst thing because it's a long time since anyone's been this fucking excited to have him touch them, years since someone has reached for him like they're not sure he'd let them. Kneeling on the bed with one hand still gripping the kid's dick, just letting him rub against his palm, and the other flat on that bony chest, bent double and breathing onto his hipbones, close enough to smell his skin, Larry wonders briefly what else he might be missing out on.

Before Freddy gets too excited - just excited enough - he yanks his sweatpants down and shoves his legs apart, kneeling between them, a hand on each thigh holding him down. The kid squirms, dick bobbing as his hips push up, face suddenly nervous like he isn't sure what's gonna happen, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't try to move, and makes a high whining noise when Larry's mouth closes around the head of his cock.

It doesn't last a long time; Larry runs his hands over Freddy's hips and stomach and chest, sometimes scraping blunt nails down the insides of his legs just to see him squirm, while his mouth works his dick. The kid half sits up, curling around Larry's head, hands brushing his shoulders like he's not sure where to put them and then suddenly squeezing tight.  
"I'm gonna," he hisses, digging his fingertips into the muscle, pushing like he wants him to back off, but that's not gonna happen. Larry gently grabs his balls with one hand and the base of his dick with the other, jerks a few times and licks the head, and Freddy shakes as he comes.

He doesn't pull back immediately, but he does pop the fly on his boxer shorts and jerk his own ignored cock, and it only takes a few strokes before he's coming too. He wipes his hand on a discarded t-shirt and throws it in the direction of his laundry basket, then wipes his mouth with the back of his other hand and crawls up the bed, dragging the covers with him.

Freddy grins up at him, sleepy and trembly. "That's the first time I've ever, well, anyone's ever," he looks down at himself, then very obviously at Larry's mouth, and worries at his lower lip with those sharp sharp teeth. "Y'know."  
"You're usually the one sucking dick," Larry says, and it's kind of a bastard thing to say, but he's still dully angry. Mostly with himself.  
"Yeah," Freddy says and wriggles down, "can you stay?"  
"It's my bed, tough guy," he replies, and in case Freddy thinks this means he isn't welcome, slides an arm around him and pulls him close.  
"Yeah, you can stay then," the kid says, hands splayed on his chest, and has the nerve to fucking giggle and nuzzle into his neck, kissing him on the collarbone.  
"Thanks," Larry says dryly, and without really thinking about it, tips his chin up and kisses him on the mouth, smooths a hand through his clean hair. Freddy looks completely lost and a little bit scared for a moment, then he grins again, huge and bright, and Larry doesn't fall asleep for a long time.

It's hard to tell what time it is when Larry wakes up; he's on his side with someone's hair tickling his nose and the pleasant pull of warm skin on skin sticking against his arms and torso. One of Freddy's arms is thrown across his ribs and the other is curled between them. The alarm clock is out of sight, the light filtering in through the blinds could be from a pre-dawn grey or a gloomy ten am. Freddy's head is pillowed on his bicep, Larry's other hand is resting just above his ass, thumb on the knobs of spine in the small of his back. It feels too possessive, but he doesn't move it, just drifts back to sleep.

It's definitely raining when he wakes up again, plus he's half hard and someone's hands are rubbing his chest. Freddy. Jesus. Last night was a fuckin trip and he's still not sure how he feels about it all - pretty good about the mouth on his neck and the warm body rubbing against him - and if he's doing the right thing instead of thinking with his dick and taking advantage. It's different in daylight. Dark made it seem like it was happening to someone else, like it was excusable.  
"Hey kiddo," he says, and Freddy pulls back and frowns.  
"Don't call me that," he says, "it's weird. I'm nearly nineteen."  
Larry chuckles. "I'm nearly forty," lets the pause hang, "kid."  
Freddy scowls. His hair's a mess, all sticking up, and he needs to shave. "I'm not a kid," he informs him, big eyes earnest, heavy lids held wide open, soft and indignant and so fucking young.  
"All right, you're not a kid, you're a tough guy," Larry says agreeably, and kisses his forehead. "Get some more sleep, tough guy."  
Freddy slowly turns pink, bites his lip like he's afraid to smile but it creeps across his face anyway. He's got freckles too. Larry is so fucked.

They doze a little longer. Larry listens to the rain and thinks about Milwaukee and how seasons changed there, passage of time measured by the months where the trees went bare and wind knifed through your clothing, leaves turning in autumn and the miserable humidity of summer. LA sometimes feels like the same day on repeat, seasons changing barely enough to notice, palm trees waving year round. That's why people are so crazy here, he thinks sometimes, getting all their gloom from the shade under the freeways and measuring summer in violent roaring fires. He wonders if Freddy has ever been out of LA, out of the desert and away from the ocean, if he'd ever want to, then reminds himself that it doesn't matter. He's being a maudlin old man, and the lit match of a kid breathing hot across his neck doesn't care, Larry isn't anything to him but some soft touch who's been kind.

The day passes quietly and the overcast sky makes it feel unreal, detached, like they're on an island and no one else exists. The traffic noise outside might as well be birdsong or the distant crashing of waves. Freddy sleeps most of it, tucked up in Larry's bed wearing nothing but his old police academy t-shirt and snoring softly. Larry eventually goes downstairs to the building's basement to do laundry, and when he comes back, the kid is curled in a ball on his couch, sweatpants back on with a sweater pulled over his legs, cheek resting on his knees. The sleeves hang over his hands and he gives Larry another of those tiny nervous smiles when he comes in.

"How's your back?" he asks, and Freddy shrugs, but unfolds and leans forward for Larry to lift his shirt up and check. It's better, a lot better, dry and scabbing over instead of raw and bloody, and it doesn't look like it's getting infected. He lowers the clothing carefully and the kid jumps when he squeezes his shoulder, drawing long thin legs back up under the worn grey wool. He's pale, freckled from the sun rather than tanned, two-tone eyes and angular hands that pick at the fraying cuffs. It's the same sweater Larry gave him months ago.  
"You okay," he says, "you hungry?"  
The kid's head snaps up at that. "Yeah," he says shyly, "it's okay, I can eat whatever."  
"How about pizza?" Larry offers, and that's how he ends up sprawled on his couch, bottle of beer slowly warming as the last slices of pizza slowly cool on the coffee table, Freddy stretched out with his head on his chest. He's mumbling about Baretta and Spiderman while Larry strokes his hair with one hand, the other resting over his sternum, the pad of his thumb stroking the dip between his collarbones. The TV murmurs in the background and when the kid looks up and grins at him after he's asked how many legs Spiderman has, the thought I could get used to this pops unbidden into his head. He should look away, not smile back, but he can't. So he does. Larry is extremely fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to lucylupin for making me aware that what it was missing was a sex scene.

The late afternoon fades into evening, still overcast, then darkens into night with more rain, heavier this time, drumming on the windows and walls. Tomorrow it'll probably be sunny again, well-watered weeds shooting up through the cracked concrete in the parking lot and bloated cacti lounging in the pots around the door, fresh smog rising after this wind blows the city clear overnight. Tomorrow he has to go to work, he can't lie on his couch running his fingers through fine sandy hair while Freddy dozes, can't tell himself not to kiss him while knowing it'd be welcomed, can't keep this illusion going. Tomorrow, he has to be an adult. He has to figure out what to do, what'd be responsible. Just because this isn't technically illegal doesn't mean it's a good idea.

Someone has to do what's best for this kid, and somehow, that's him.

Around ten, his own eyelids are drooping and he knows he'll regret it if he sleeps on the couch (he should have slept on the couch last night) so he gently shakes the kid awake and chases him off to brush his teeth, turns down the clean covers on the bed and sits for a full minute with his head in his hands. Freddy comes back without the sweater, peeling off his shirt as he walks and trying to peer over his own shoulder.

"It's itchy," he says, dropping the t-shirt on the floor and turning around a few times on the spot, uselessly twisting his arms like that'll help.

Larry reaches out without thinking and catches him around the waist. "Hold still," he tells him, guides him over so he's standing under the light. "Does it hurt?"

The skin of his sides is warm and smooth and he'd like nothing more than to slide his hands up over the narrow chest, pull him down to sit on his lap and kiss his freckled shoulders, but that would be a tremendously bad idea. "A bit," Freddy says, hunching forwards. "It's more like my skin's too tight, it's real itchy."

It doesn't look too bad, a little red but not inflamed, and when he puts his hand carefully flat over it, there's no heat. Warm like the skin under the hand still resting on his waist, but none of the burn of infection. Freddy sighs and leans back, presses his spine against Larry's hand.

"That's nice," he mumbles.

As he's shifted, Larry's other hand has slid around to rest on his stomach, wrist curved around his hipbone. "You can't scratch, kiddo," he says. His hand fits knuckle to knuckle between his shoulderblades, the little finger of the other's brushing the waistband of his sweatpants, his knees are bumping the backs of his legs and he should not be even thinking about lying him across his lap and kissing him. Bad enough he let the kid spend all evening spread over him like a blanket, bad enough he enjoyed that, bad enough his dick is starting to twitch - not yet hard but heavy in his loose pants - at the memory of hands in his hair and desperate little noises in the dark.

Last night...that's more than bad enough.

"Lie down," he says, gives him a little push, "on your stomach. I got something that'll help with the itching."

Freddy plops down obediently enough, stretches so his back arches, arms above his head. Larry heads for the bathroom before he does something he'll regret, like grabbing those slight wrists and shoving him flat, kissing the freckles on the back of his neck. He avoids looking his reflection in the eye while he digs through the cabinet above the sink, and thankfully when he goes back into the bedroom with the tube of green gel he bought to deal with a bad sunburn a few years back, the kid's just lying there with his arms by his sides and his eyes half shut.

He's still and quiet while Larry settles down next to him, close enough that his side's pressed against his hip, and doesn't say anything when he warns him the stuff might be cold. He sighs when the first blob of lime green goo hits his skin though, happy.

"Cold helps, does it," Larry says, gently spreading it over the rough skin at the edges of the graze.

"Yeah," Freddy agrees. "S'good."

Rubbing small circles, light touch. "I have to go to work tomorrow."

"S'okay."

"I got some people there I can call, about your situation I mean," squeeze out more gel, into the middle of the graze this time, fingers gentle over the big rough bits. "Get you someplace to stay."

The kid looks up at him, eyes suspicious slits. "I can stay with you?"

Slow circles over his skin. "I don't think that's a good idea."

He starts to sit up. "I'm sorry I left your sweater in the bathroom, I'll pick it up, I can be tidy and I'll do the dishes and clean and get a job and pay half the rent and-"

Larry pushes him back down. "Cool it, lie down."

"You won't even know I'm here," he says after a few minutes. "I'll do your laundry and, and," his breathing's sped up, shoulderblades jumping under his hand, eyes wide as he tries to roll over onto his back. "And you can, I mean, if you like, you can fuck me any time you want."

Larry suddenly knows how he's been living. He knows why he hasn't seen him much. He knows, and he's a fucking idiot for not figuring it out, for not realising that's what this was, that the kid thought this was just another arrangement.

Freddy mistakes his silence for consideration. "I'm good, I'm still clean," he says tentatively, "I've been real careful."

"This isn't a goddamn negotiation!" Larry snaps, "that is not how this is gonna go!"

He sits up, indignant, hurt written all over his face. "You want to, you were in that bar looking for someone and you picked me!"

"I thought you were a goddamn adult!"

"I am, I'm nineteen! And I can take care of myself."

Larry almost laughs, almost, except it's a strange choking noise that forces its way up his throat and he has to turn away, head dropping into his sticky hands. "Fucksake, kid," he says, "fucksake."

They sit in still silence for a few minutes, rain drumming loud against the windows, before a hand rests on Larry's back, nervous and light. "I'm sorry," Freddy whispers, "please let me stay, I'm sorry."

"Lie down," he says, sudden and loud, and the hand recoils. The kid's looking at him like he hit him, big green eyes somewhere between hurt and angry, and he wants to grab him and pull him close, tuck his head under his chin and tell him he's safe, he can stay, he'll be all right.

He also knows better than to actually do it.

"Lie down," he says, quieter this time, "lie down and let me finish." Freddy lets himself be pushed back, rests his head on his folded arms with his face turned away, and Larry wishes he never fucking said anything. He wants to curl around him, pull him close and stroke his hair, kiss him and make all kinds of promises he can never keep, but he knows better than that.

By the time he's done, Freddy's asleep - or, at least his eyes are shut and his breathing is steady. Larry pulls the covers up over him, anyway, brushes a few strands of hair back from his forehead and ignores the sinking chill of worry.

"It'll be okay," he says, just in case he's only pretending, and kisses him on the cheek. There's no response, he doesn't even twitch.

  
  


Larry passes an uncomfortable night on his couch, water trickling down the living room windows casting eerie shadows on the ceiling while he wonders if he should just go climb in next to the kid. It doesn't have to mean anything - he's shared a bed with people before, with Pink for fucksake, who slept curled away from him like a resentful comma and then complained that he snored - but he also knows it does mean something, he knows how it ends. It ends like last night, in his own bad judgement, in a mouth on his and a hand sliding down his stomach, and it ends with him not saying no, because the truth is he'd  _ really _ like to say yes.

It's a long, long night.

Eventually he must've dropped off because he wakes up in the light, stiff and sore to the mechanical buzz of his alarm coming from the other room. His spine creaks as he hurries to turn it off, and still half asleep he doesn't notice that the bed is empty, covers messily pulled up, until he's standing there in the following silence.

Freddy's not in the bathroom or the kitchen, not that he really expected him to be, and both backpacks are gone. He didn't even hear him go.

The five bucks in quarters he had stacked on the counter for laundry is missing, and when he stops off to buy smokes on his way in to work, he realises that the forty bucks in his wallet is too. He tells the guy behind the counter never mind about it and stomps back to his car, feels like a goddamn fool, a sucker, like it's all his fault.

He wonders if he left in the rain, those crappy sneakers getting soaked through while he trudged through the now-shrinking puddles, where he sheltered, if he even bothered. Did he stand in the living room clutching his bag and hope that Larry would wake up and stop him, pull him down onto the couch and stroke his hair or lead him back to bed and hold him? When the door clicked shut, did he pause outside and listen, wait for someone to call him back and only finally go down the stairs when they didn't? Had he been lying awake for however many hours before that, wishing he'd hear footsteps and then see a shape in the doorway, feel a weight shift the mattress, hands on his arms and back and tilting his face up to kiss. How long did he wait before he was disappointed, before he knew that he'd been let down again.

Larry let him down, he tried to do the dumbass right thing and he fucking failed, and Freddy's paying the price.

  
  


"How was your weekend?" Pink asks when he walks on. He's slumped on his side of the desk, drinking coffee out of a paper cup and looking like hell. There's an identical one on Larry's desk, still steaming.

"Fine," he says, sharper than he means to, flings himself into the chair and ignores the raised eyebrows.

"We're doing traffic this week," Pink says, "punishment for something no doubt, because we also did it two weeks ago. I wish I'd been a fuckin fireman."

"Don't fucking start," Larry tells him. "I've got a headache."

Pink gets up and kicks his chair under the desk, stands there with his hip cocked and his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and rubs his thumb and forefinger together. "You know what this is?"

Larry scowls.

"It's the world's smallest violin, and it's playing for your hangover. Stop being such a little bitch and let's go."

"You're too skinny to be a fireman," Larry says, poking him in the side as he goes past, and gets a high vis vest in the face for his effort.

  
  


Monday and Tuesday pass in a slow-motion blur of speeding tickets and parking tickets and pretending he isn't looking for Freddy while they drive around.

"What's your fuckin problem?" Pink asks him on Wednesday after a morning of tickets and tedium, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. They're parked in the lot outside the Safeway eating lunch, windows down and radio on low, sleeves rolled up and skin sticking to the vinyl seats through their clothing.

"Fuck you," Larry snaps, "who says I got a problem?"

The irritating prick just peers over the top of his sunglasses, eyebrows up and one corner of his mouth pushing disapprovingly into his cheek. He knows he's onto something, he knows he's stuck a pin right into a nerve, and now that he's eaten his burger and they're trapped here while Larry finishes his lunch, he's probably not going to leave it alone. "What crawled up your ass and died?" he says, "you've been a miserable bastard all week."

"Whatever's up my ass is none of your goddamn business," Larry tells him, shoves the rest of his own burger in his mouth and reaches for the keys hanging in the ignition.

"Don't flatter yourself," Pink says through a mouthful of Larry's fries (why do all the young men he knows steal his food), and oh, there's absolutely no danger of that.

  
  


Thursday, a truck tips over on a freeway ramp and they spend all day directing traffic around it, and standing on a weed-choked median strip in high vis holding a SLOW sign and answering the same question over and over turns out to be perfect for stewing over your fuck ups. They don't get time for lunch, but Pink shares a warm bottle of coke that he cadged off one of the cleanup crew with minimal ill-grace and even stops at Larry's favourite (inferior) taco place when he's driving him home. They perch against the hood of the car in the sinking light and he doesn't complain about the rice to beans ratio of his burrito; an ominous sign that Larry's too preoccupied to notice until it's too late.

"You all right?" Pink says, right when he's taken a big bite of his taco, and then stares expectantly at him while he hurriedly chews and swallows.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure you're not dying or anything? Or did someone else die?" He's looking at him with an unusually serious expression, his foot's jiggling against the blacktop and his spidery fingers are curling and uncurling around his burrito, one after the other, tap tap tap tap, and it hits Larry like an elbow to the gut that he's genuinely concerned.

"Is that why we're here and not at that nameless shithole under the freeway?"

"Fuck off," he says, which is a definite yes.

"I'm fine, no one's died. It's just been a long day," he pauses and pinches the bridge of his nose, "a few long days. I hate traffic duty, I'm too old for this shit."

"Yeah, you are," Pink says through a mouthful of burrito. "Rice and beans, bullshit, this is mostly rice. Fucks up the balance completely, and the sour cream is all in the middle as usual. Fuck this place. You sure you don't have brain cancer or fatal dick rot or something?"

Larry can't help laughing, can't help the dumb rush of fondness, can't help remembering the too-solemn kid in the stiff new uniform whose first non-work related remark was to tell him he had shit taste in Tex Mex. Now he's the one looking out for him and the more things change, hey. "Those my only two options?"

Pink's got sour cream on his nose and he considers pointing this out, but decides not to when he says "I also thought you might just be distressed by your own mortality, y'know, because you're so old."

"Yeah yeah," Larry says, "I'm ancient."

"Hurry up and finish your crime against tacos, you don't wanna miss Wheel of Fortune," Pink tells him, skips out of the way of a punch in the arm, and is mercifully silent the whole drive home.

Larry's good mood lasts til he sees the sweater Freddy borrowed on top of his laundry pile, and he spends the night sipping at one slowly warming beer and telling himself he can get drunk tomorrow.

On Friday night he gets slightly drunk and falls asleep on his couch, and it's all supremely unsatisfying and predictable.

He got used, it happens. He just wishes he knew where the kid was, that he was okay.

He wishes he could say  _ I'm sorry _ and maybe  _ let me try again _ .

  
  


The following Tuesday, Larry's halfway into second shift, sorting out his ticket book carbon copies and chain-smoking his way through Pink's cigarettes, when one of the other constables sidles up and mutters something to Pink. He closes his ticket book, peers around the office, deliberately doesn't look at Larry, and then gets up and follows her out into the hall.

"What the shit now," Larry mutters, and lights another cigarette off the cherry of the current one. This is the last thing he needs, a fucking office romance blossoming between his socially unacceptable partner and one of the newbies who hasn't yet figured out that they're the precinct fuckups.

Five minutes later, Pink's back, still looking shifty, half-scowling and half worried, and he leans down over Larry's shoulder and mutters "someone wants to talk to you in interview room two."

"I'm not in the fucking mood for games," he replies, doesn't even look up, pen scratching over the yellow carbon paper.

Pink makes an angry hissing noise. "Good, because I'm not playing one. Your little friend is in as a witness for a break and enter last night and he wants to talk to you."

"What little friend? Is that sack of assholes who calls himself Pumpkin back in town, because we ain't friends. He and his nutcase girlfriend did the b and e, case solved, you're welcome."

Pink gives him a look of utter contempt, lip curled and eyes narrowed. "It's Freddy," he says, snatches up his cigarette packet and stomps off again.

It takes a few seconds to sink in, then he's up and hurrying down the hall, half worried he's wrong and half worried he's not.

As it turns out, when he lets himself into the little grey room, Pink is completely right. Freddy stares up at him and Larry is suddenly incredibly angry.

"You little idiot," Larry snarls. He can keep his cool on the job, but as soon as it's personal, his temper's a fuckin' liability and always has been. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Freddy shrinks back in the chair. He's got a black eye coming up on the left and a graze on the right, shivering in his sleeveless shirt, fingers pressing bloodless dots into his arms where he's hugging himself. He looks so fragile, spiderwebbed cracks spread through him, but his eyes glint like broken glass.

"Are you fuckin' stupid, did you think-" he cuts himself off, grips the edges of the metal table as he leans forward. "No, you didn't fucken think at all, did you?"

"I'm sorry, officer," he says in a small voice.

Larry wants to shake him, rattle loose his sense of self-preservation, ask him who did this and then go beat the shit out of them. Maybe go back to the run-down neighbourhood from a few years ago, with the low chain link fences and sagging clapboard porches and asphalt faded out to a grey so light it reflects the sun like snow, go back and beat the shit out of his parents too. Anyone who's ever paid to touch the kid, anyone who didn't pay, whichever asshole threw him out of a car. Anyone at all who might be to blame, maybe some who aren't too. He's in a shit-beating kind of mood.

He takes a deep breath though, like Pink is always telling him to do, counts to six before losing patience and says "why the fuck did you do it?"

"I don't know," Freddy mumbles, eyes on the tabletop again. "I'm sorry."

Before he can continue, tell him how fucking worried he was, the door opens and Pink walks in. His face shutters when he sees Larry, and he immediately goes to stand behind Freddy's chair, puts a hand on each shoulder and leans forward. It's not subtle; it's not quite a challenge but his perpetually sloping shoulders lift and he frames the kid with his arms. Back the fuck off, he's saying. Larry could fuckin punch him, would love to deck the ferrety prick, but he's also right, so he just stomps out.

  
  


Larry's skulking around their tiny pair of designated desks in the back corner, chain-smoking and doing a shit job at paperwork when Pink comes back two hours later. He picks his way through the maze of chairs looking thoughtful, until he sees Larry, and then he looks furious. His eyes narrow and he scowls, looming over him with his hands opening and closing at his sides, forming fists and stretching out.

"What'd you want?" He says, aiming for nonchalant and just hitting sullen.

Pink jerks his head towards the bathrooms. The station is quiet this late at night, but there's still enough people around to overhear whatever he apparently wants to say, so Larry follows him because he doesn't want an audience for this either. As soon as they're in the bathroom, Pink grabs him by the front of his shirt and shoves him into the wall between the sinks, not entirely successfully because he's made of stringy west coast junkie elbows and knees and Larry's built from sturdy midwestern steelworker muscle, but it's a good effort.

"You fucking dumb fucking bastard," he snaps, lip curled back over uneven teeth.

Larry grabs him and spins them around, slams him into the tiles hard enough to knock the breath out of him, exactly like Pink probably meant to but didn't have the bulk to pull off. "What's your fucking problem?"

"What's my- fucksake Larry," he wheezes, "what's your problem, fucking forty five bucks is your problem, fucking picking up a goddamn hooker and," he whines as the grip tightens and Larry's knuckles dig into his chest, just under his collarbones. "Can you act like a fucking professional here?"

  
  


Larry snarls right in his face, white hot furious.

  
  


"How long have you been fucking him," Pink says, because he apparently has no sense of self preservation, and Larry punches him square in the nose. His head snaps back and his knees twist and bend, he staggers like a baby deer but he doesn't fall. He's always been able to take a hit.

"How long," Pink spits, because he doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, and when Larry just stands there with his legs braced apart, hands in loose fists, breathing like he's gone a round in a boxing ring instead of just punched someone in his workplace bathroom. "How long have you been fucking him?" He gets up in Larry's face, blood running down through his mustache into his mouth, slicked-back hair hanging forward. "How long, Dimmick?"

It's too much. Larry shoves him, hard, against the wall, hears his head crack against the tiles and watches him slide down, shirt dragging untucked on the rough grout.

Pink stares up at him, dazed, and slowly touches his bloody face with careful fingertips. He seems surprised by the blood, and the low noise of the station and streets around them floods back like water, washes cold over Larry, tightens his lungs in a way smoking never has.

"Jesus," he says, lowering himself down the tiled wall to sit next to Pink. He's holding his nose, handful of blood dripping down his wrist, and he just looks sad and tired and small, the sleeve seams of his uniform shirt hanging out over his shoulders and the collar gaping where Larry yanked it. "I'm sorry," he puts a hand on his arm, "I'm really sorry, Mitch."

Pink mumbles something, spraying little flecks of blood on their skin, bright red on washed-out whites under the stuttering fluorescent tubes.

"Let me have a look," he tells him, best no-nonsense voice to cover for how his heart's going hammer and tongs and the pit of his stomach is churning sour, turns Pink's head with fingers on his jaw and pulls his hands back from his face.

"S'not broken," he says, twitching away. Eyes down. Flinches. Freddy. "M'fine."

"Fuck, I didn't mean," he starts, "I'm sorry, kid."

He hasn't called Pink, Mitch, kid for over six years. They've been partners for seven. He's the closest thing Larry's got to a close friend. "You fucking idiot," Pink mutters, but he doesn't sound angry. "How long?"

"I've been keeping an eye on him for a few years," he admits, "he's smart, we'd get lunch sometimes and talk, he'd tell me bout cartoons and I'd try and get him to get away from the dealing, get him to tell me how to help. He's a good kid, amazing artist. He wants to draw comic books."

"He did get away from dealing," Pink says, but he always says the wrong thing, "so, congratulations on that. How fucking long, Dimmick?"

"I haven't. Well, once, a week or so ago, but I, uh, I-" Pink's eyes narrow at him, and he can't bring himself to say it - not because he's ashamed or gives the remotest fuck what fucking Constable Mitchell Pink thinks, but because the thought of sharing anything about that night suddenly makes him angry, like telling someone about it even vaguely would mean losing the memory of the feel of skin under his mouth or the little sounds Freddy made. This is horrific, this is the worst conversation he has ever had. "I found him at a bar down by the beach-"

"The one in Long Beach, fucking Mike's?"

"Am I telling this fucking story or not?" He glares. Pink rolls his eyes. "Yeah, there, I didn't recognise him, only saw him from the back, and when he saw me he bolted. We got talking in the alley and I took him to get some pancakes. He didn't have anywhere else to go."

"So you took him home?"

Larry sighs. "Yeah. Look. I wasn't picking him up."

"Whatever."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, shoulders touching, heads resting against the tile and feet kicked out, loosely bent legs in identical navy blue trousers. One of Larry's feet is almost against the door, though they're not likely to be interrupted at this hour.

"Anyway, I told him I'd give you this," Pink says, and pulls some neatly folded banknotes out of his shirt pocket. He clambers slowly to his feet and leans down to stuff them in Larry's shirt pocket, but Larry grabs his wrist.

"What the fuck, did he give you that?"

The hand is jerked out of his grasp. "No, he tried to, but I told him I'd take care of it. He's fucking sorry, all right, he doesn't need you busting his hairless balls over forty five lousy bucks."

"I don't give a shit about the money, I woulda given it to him if he asked," Larry bursts out, "I woke up and he was gone, he was in pretty rough shape and I was outta my mind worrying where he was!"

There's a long silence while both of them re-process the evening from a new angle.

"Fuck," Pink says.

Larry's already on his feet. "Where'd you drop him off?"

"I cleaned up his face and let him shower," Pink says, "then got him some food at Red's." He makes a face.

"Did you tip?" Larry asks, and grins when Pink scowls. "Did Freddy make you tip?"

"Well, I wasn't gonna let him do it," he mutters.

"Where'd you drop him?"

"He ran off."

He could be anywhere by now. "Fuck, he could be anywhere."

Pink's splashing cold water on his face, washing drying blood away down the stainless steel drain in rusty swirls. "Pretty much," he says, words bubbling as his mustache drips red into his cupped hands. "Fucking dumbass."

  
  


Over the next couple of weeks, Larry spends his work hours with his ear to the ground and his off hours cruising around LA. Pink goes out with him a few times, drives up and down for hours staring down alleyways while Larry watches the road and imagines increasingly unlikely scenarios. It seems like he's feeling guilty about the whole thing, but Larry nearly falls off his chair when he comes in one morning, glances shiftily around, and then mutters that no one at Mike's has seen Freddy for a while.

"Did you go interview people? They actually talked to you?" His own attempts to talk to anyone have led to precisely fuck all and Pink's not exactly a people person, doesn't exactly put anyone at their ease, so the fact that he got that much information out of someone is impressive.

He just shrugs, waves a dismissive hand, "I know a guy, friend of a friend."

Larry bumps against his shoulder, "didn't know you had any of those."

He rolls his eyes, but he does smile. "Fuck you Dimmick, I have friends."

He probably does, he's a pretty good friend to have. He goes down to Vice every morning without being asked and pulls overnight arrest records and somehow always knows who's been to Mike's - refuses to go in when he and Larry stop by there, but Larry figures that's just straight guys for you and lets it slide without comment. Maybe when all this is over he'll give him shit about it, it's the nineties for fucksake, he ain't so good looking that every man in the place is gonna try and fuck him as soon as he walks in. In fact, Pink's not really good looking at all with his weird mouth and too-big eyes, thin mustache and badly slicked back hair like a mafia wannabe, skinny and slouching around in shirts that don't fit. But still, once or twice a year he smiles just so or the curve of his neck catches the right shadows and Larry remembers that handsome is all smoke and mirrors anyhow, idly thinks he'd buy him a drink in a bar, brush his hair off his face, take him home and...and then stops right there because they're partners and he's not a homo. It always fades ten seconds later when he sneers or makes some awkward remark, but he's fond of him anyway.

Another week or two goes by and there's no goddamn sign of the kid, not even under his dumbass aliases, and Larry's sitting on his couch around midnight wondering if he should spend his day off searching or just give up already, when the phone rings. Unusual, but not unheard of.

It's Pink.

"I've found Freddy," he says. There's street noise in the background like he's at a payphone, outside a bar maybe. "He's all right but he's, ah fuck, I don't know, you able to come pick him up?"

"What the fuck happened?"

Pink makes an irritated noise. "He's going to be all right. Can you come get him?"

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

"I haven't even said where I am, I could be out in Pomona for all you know, you dumb bastard," he says.

"Are you out in Pomona?"

"No! But I could be!" He sounds agitated, distracted, but finally spits out the address when Larry growls. He's about twenty minutes away.

He's out the door, in the car and pulling onto the highway almost as soon as he hangs up, head full of worst case scenarios plucked in technicolour from a long career as a cop, but once the initial spike of adrenaline smooths and he's had some time to think it over, he feels a bit better. The cool air rushing through his open window helps; Pink wouldn't lie and he wouldn't call Larry instead of an ambulance. He's probably just gonna be picking up a drunk nineteen year old, and yeah they're gonna have words tomorrow, but he'll also give the reckless little fool some aspirin and a decent breakfast.

Maybe, if Larry doesn't fuck this up, it'll end with the kid lying on the couch with his head on Larry's chest again, and how fucking sentimental is he.

When he gets to the address it's in a quiet bordering-on-industrial area, warehouses and a few multi-story blocks, some closed shopfronts and a lot of cyclone wire fencing. There's no one sitting hunched and regretful on the curb like he expected and no bars in sight, and suddenly the cold dread is back. This isn't where stupid kids get drunk; this is where they OD or get beaten and murdered.

He's not dead, Larry reminds himself. Pink wouldn't have said he was all right,  _ going to be _ all right, if he wasn't.

No street parking either, but there's a closed convenience store on the block behind, just a short trot up the alleyway. The slam of his car door is loud in the quiet, and his footsteps seem louder still as he heads for the road.

Pink's lurking in the gloom at the mouth of the alley - Larry almost runs past him, then almost crashes into him when he turns, jacket flapping.

"Where's Freddy?" He says immediately, then winces. "Sorry, it's been…"

Pink gives him a strange soft look and says "I know" before doubling back and leading him through a side door (knock, knock, wait, knock) he probably wouldn't have realised was there even in daylight. They pick their careful way down badly lit stairs, sulfur-yellow bulb burning weakly in a wire cage, snap-hum of old wiring as they pass underneath and the distant sound of a club or maybe a party getting stronger. Pink's ahead of him so he can't see his face, probably barely could in this light anyway.

Once they reach the bottom, they're in a red-lit room with concrete floors, hardly bright enough to see by. There's posters taped up and the only visible doorway has a curtain strung across it. Beyond there's music, feet, voices, and Larry is ready to burst through and arrest everyone in sight, fight them, but a hand on his elbow leads him to another invisible doorway and into what seems to be a cloakroom.

It's better lit in here, with bags arranged neatly around the walls and jackets hanging on a leaning metal rack. Between a pile of boxes and what looks like an empty dog crate, there's an old guy in stonewash jeans and a leather vest sitting against the wall, and the penny that began its slow descent when Larry walked through that metal door finally plinks down and he realises what kind of place this is. The old guy's wearing no shirt under his vest and immaculate motorcycle boots, with facial hair that'd do any spaghetti western Sheriff proud, and curled up in his lap, wrapped in a coat...Freddy.

What the fuck has this kid gotten himself into now.

"He's here," Pink says, though it's kinda unnecessary because Larry's charged past him and dropped to his knees, telling himself that no one holds the dead like that, he's alive, he's gonna be okay.

"See," the old guy says as Freddy twists and reaches for Larry, flings his arms around his neck as soon as he's within reach. "I told you he'd come get his boy."

The glimpse he got of the pale face now being pressed into his jaw was worrying - gaunt and wild-eyed. His skin's cold and clammy and he hasn't shaved in a while, stubble catching on Larry's shirt collar as he shivers. In a small voice he says "you came" and just sounds so surprised.

"Of course I did," Larry tells him, hugs him tight and ignores his protesting knees as they grind into the cold concrete. He's old, the cartilage feels like driveway gravel. "You're gonna be the death of me, kid."

Freddy doesn't say anything, just hugs him tighter.

Another youngish guy in black jeans and a Madonna t-shirt appears, short black apron tied around his hips and a pint-glass of water in one hand. He must be one of the bartenders, and Larry takes the cup and offers it to Freddy, who looks unsure but obediently drinks. While he kneels there, tipping little sips of water into the slack mouth, Pink and the old guy explain the events leading up to the tableau that Larry walked in on. Some of it's vague; they don't know how Freddy knew about this place, they don't know if someone brought him or told him or what, if he was meeting a client, and they don't know if he'd been there before.

Some is less vague; the old guy, Blue, saw the kid go from sober to staggering after one drink, and he pointed this out to his friend Mitch because he saw a guy leading him into the darkrooms and wanted to know if it seemed suspicious to him too.

Some is really clear; Pink recognised Freddy immediately, sprinted down the hallway after them and knocked the guy flat, possibly breaking one or more of his fingers.

It then gets vague again; two of the regulars haul the guy out and discover what he put in the drink, Blue and the bartender carry Freddy into the cloakroom and check him over, Pink runs up to the phone box and calls Larry, then waits in the alleyway until he shows up.

"I'll fuckin kill him," Larry growls, arms tightening around the body against his chest.

The old guy lights a cigarette and gives Pink a significant look. "Not sure where he is, actually. I think he went home."

Pink looks at the ceiling.

The bartender, who is holding a cloth wrapped around a handful of ice over Pink's damaged fingers, pipes up with "I thought you said they put him in the trunk of-" before Pink kicks him and he cuts off with a yelp.

"Shut up," he hisses. The guy grins, completely unphased, goofy quiff falling down over his forehead, Blue smirks, and Larry can't help but laugh.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" Larry asks Freddy, gives him a gentle shake when he doesn't answer but only gets a mumbling noise back. "You just wanna go sleep it off?"

The kid murmurs something, presses closer.

"I'll take you home," he says, "you wanna go home?"

Freddy looks up at him, hopeful and a little cross-eyed. "With you?"

Larry kisses his forehead, smooths the grimy hair back, and pretends his throat hasn't gone tight. "Yeah kiddo, yeah, with me."

"Take care of your boy," Blue says, quiet in Larry's ear while he's shaking some feeling back into his legs, and while this has never been his scene he's not naive, he knows what  _ boy _ means, and he should tell the guy that Freddy ain't his. Except the kid can hear him, swaying there on buckling knees with Pink's arms around his waist, head tucked under his chin, half-smiling at something he's saying but his eyes never leave Larry, and he can't bring himself to say it. He just shrugs like  _ what can you do _ and accepts the offer of help out to the car.

He and Pink hang Freddy between them, arm over each of their shoulders, and his toes drag on the concrete, head lolling from side to side. There's a brief stop so he can be sick in the gutter, and once he's done, Larry gets an arm behind his knees and scoops him up, ignores his creaking back and the irritated sniff from Pink, and heads for the car. The kid clings around his neck, sweat-sticky forehead pressed under his jaw and damp hot breath down Larry's collar.

"Careful," Pink says, holding Freddy's legs while Larry tries to figure out how to best get his top half onto the front seat without dropping him, "I'm not driving you to hospital if you throw your back out."

"Yeah you will," he says absently, and when he glances up and their eyes meet, Pink gives him a crooked grin, one of those just so smiles in the long shadows under the streetlight, and Larry's gut lurches because why didn't he trust him enough to tell him, because he's difficult and irritating but he's also his goddamn friend and he feels like he failed him.

"Yeah," he says, "I would."

Between them, they get Freddy into the car without bumping his head or jostling him around too badly, and he stares off into the middle distance while Larry wraps his coat around those narrow shoulders. It doesn't seem like he's going to be sick again, or like he's any worse than before, so he carefully buckles a seatbelt around him and closes the car door, doesn't slam it because he's terrified the kid will suddenly tip sideways and he'll accidentally give him brain damage.

"Do you need me to come with you?" Pink offers, awkward tilt to his shoulders and toe kicking the crumbling weed-clogged concrete. His face is, for maybe the first time since he's known him, impossible to read.

"Nah," Larry says, because even though he has no idea how he'll get Freddy up the stairs - probably just hope he's sobered up enough to walk - he really doesn't want company for this. He digs in his pocket and pulls out what he's pretty sure is a ten and a few singles, holds it out. "You go back, you tell Blue thanks from me and buy him a drink, and tip that bartender too."

He laughs a little, eyes darting up. "I always do."

"They seem like good guys. You come here a lot?"

That's the wrong thing to say, or, maybe not exactly wrong, but it jolts them back to reality and the easy moment's over. Larry's got a drugged out kid in his front seat, Pink's in a bomber jacket that's not quite zipped up enough and he can see he has no shirt on underneath, can see a chain with an undone padlock hanging off it and can see that his shoes aren't tied, like they were thrown on in a hurry, no socks. It's cold this late at night and he's hugging himself with wiry arms, face defiant but eyes on the pavement.

"I guess you know my secret now," he mutters bitterly, but there's no real teeth in the remark, all Larry can hear is another lost lonely boy echoing through the years and oh man how does he keep pickin' em.

"Mitch," he says, which seems insufficient, but he's not sure how to say  _ thank you for damaging your hand punching a man who was trying to assault the teenage prostitute I have possibly fallen in love with, and then running out of an illegal sex club half dressed to phone me, your work colleague, to come and meet you, outing yourself in the process _ without sounding insane. Pink scuffs his foot on the curb and scratches at his ratty mustache with his ring finger, and on a whim Larry hugs him, proper hugs him with one arm around his shoulders and the other around his ribs, hauls him close and feels him tense up, then abruptly go limp. His hands grip his shirt and his forehead rests on Larry's shoulder for a few seconds before he pulls back, and he looks young and sad under the streetlights, and all he can hope is that he'll find someone to close the padlock on that chain, someone worthy of it, because for all he's an annoying bastard who doesn't always tip and has way too many stupid opinions about bullshit pop music, he's a the best friend he's ever had. He's got no idea how he never figured him out, but it occurs to Larry that maybe Pink's a better actor than anyone gives him credit for, maybe he's so used to hiding that he's forgotten how to be seen.

"Take your fuckin' schoolboy boyfriend home already," he says roughly, "I'll see you at work."

"He's not-" Larry starts, then realises he isn't even sure which part of that he wants to deny. Pink's already walking back down the alley anyway, hands shoved in his jacket pockets and head down. "Fuck off," he says under his breath instead, and can't help grinning as he turns back to the car.

Freddy's slumped in the front seat, still wrapped in Larry's jacket (though it's slipping off) and shaking like he's on a comedown, teeth rattling and eyes rolling. He might be more comfortable in the back where he can lie down, but he doesn't want him out of sight, not even out of reach, and the kid seems to agree because he grabs for Larry's arm as soon as he sits down. His hands are cold but his face is flushed, he's sweaty and he looks like hell under the cab light.

"Let's go home," he says, more cheerful than he feels, false lightness pressing down heavy as he starts the engine. He's pretty sure Freddy will be just fine, he'll go to sleep on Larry's couch and wake up hungover and weak tomorrow afternoon, he'll eat something and feel better and slink off on Monday morning, back to wherever it is he goes and Larry can go back to worrying about him constantly and searching for his face on street corners.

"Can I come with you Mr Dimmick, officer, officer Dimmick," Freddy says, head lolling to the side, and when he glances over, the kid gives him a bright unguarded smile. "Can I come home with you?"

"Yeah, kid, you can."

"My name's Freddy."

"I know, kiddo. You're Freddy Newandyke, nineteen years old. And sometimes you're Peter Parker, the spiders man."

"Spiderman," he replies automatically. "You never call me Freddy, you just call me kid," he sounds sad, but his face is in shadow and his expression's hard to read. "You can call me Peter if you like that better."

A hand slides across Larry's knee and up his thigh and it's a good thing they're idling at a stop sign because he jumps like he's been bitten. "Freddy's fine, kid," pauses, curses, the kid laughs, "I like Freddy just fine. Suits you."

The hand squeezes. "I like you too."

He looks over again. The jacket's fallen off his shoulders and his head's cocked to one side, hair falling across his face as he smiles. His eyes aren't focused, he's completely stoned out of his gourd on god knows what, and Larry wishes that he accepted Pink's offer, had him drive so he could sit in the back seat and hold him because oh god he wants to. He's a wreck, barely an adult and this is a terrible idea, and the thought of never seeing him again hurts like a punch in the gut, a shoulder to the chest, and for a few seconds he can't breathe.

"You doing okay-" (almost says kid, catches himself) "-Freddy?"

"Yeah, yeah, officer, yeah," he squeezes Larry's thigh again. "I'm all right. No, I'm sick. But I'm all right, I won't be sick in your car."

"Good, because then I'd have to sell it and I like this car."

Freddy laughs, soft with a sharp edge of hysteria rising in it. "I like your car, officer Dimmick. You came to get me, Mitch said you would, he said you'd never let him down, he said you'd been looking for me."

Fuck, of course he did. All this Officer Dimmick crap is doing his head in - the last thing he needs is a reminder of how goddamn inappropriate this is. "Jeez, call me Larry."

"Larry," Freddy murmurs, and the hand goes slack and slides off, across the center console and back to his side. "Larry, Larry, Larry."

"That's me," he replies, but there's no answer. Freddy has tipped sideways against the door, head against the glass and mouth hanging open. He's shivering or maybe it's just the engine rattle, the coat's bunched up around his waist and there's not much Larry can do while he's doing seventy on the freeway.

He could pull over and wrap him up again, but they're about halfway there, he'll be fine for another ten minutes.

They drive in silence for a little while, Freddy in his boneless slump against the door and Larry glancing over at him from time to time, and they're almost to the freeway exit when he suddenly sits up and grabs for Larry's arm.

"You okay?" 

"I'm gonna die," he says, quiet at first but volume going up the second time. There's an edge in his voice like he believes it too. "I'm gonna fuckin die, Larry."

"You a fuckin' doctor?" He asks him, louder than he means to as he shifts up a gear. "I don't see a medical degree, so how about you don't go making judgements on a subject where you know nothing."

Freddy laughs, high and panicky, trails off into a whine, but his fingers tighten around Larry's hand on the gearstick.

The rest of the drive goes quick. The streets are quiet this late, so quiet he rolls a few stop signs and pulls into the lot behind his building on autopilot. He's been talking reassuring nonsense at the kid and some of it seems to be sinking in; he's not thrashing around any more and his breathing has evened out, but he's still got a death grip on Larry's hand, he's still shivery and shaky, kicking his legs feebly against the footwell mat.

Getting up the stairs is a challenge, they both stagger from side to side, bumping into walls and railings and trying not to make too much noise and wake the neighbours. Freddy groans, propped against Larry's hip while he fumbles for his house key, mumbles something about dying.

"You're not gonna die," he says, louder than he means to, voice echoing off the stucco, "say it, say I'm not gonna die."

"I'm not gonna die," Freddy repeats, then again, louder as the key grates in the lock.

"Good boy," he tells him, and kicks the door open as wide as it can go.

"I'm not gonna die, Larry," the kid practically yells, hands twisting in his shirt.

  
  


Once they get inside, he eases him onto the couch and goes to get the comforter from his bed, but Freddy staggers after him, falls against the doorframe and hits the laminate knees shoulder cheek, gasping desperate breaths.

"Don't leave me, Larry," he wheezes, and his skin's cold when he takes his hand.

"I'm just getting a blanket," he says, "I'da been right back."

He was going to prop him up out in the living room and make him drink some more water, check him over under good lighting, but he's here now so Larry hauls him upright and drags him over to the bed, legs kicking behind as the kid tries to walk with him on jello knees. Sharp fingers dig into the tender crook of his elbow and tangle in the front of his shirt, and when Larry's shins hit the bed frame, the best he can do is sort of half drop him, roll him until he's not lying on the edge.

"Stay there," he says, brushes the hair back from the sweaty forehead, out of those glazed eyes, "I'll be right back."

Freddy grabs at his hand, misses the first time but adjusts. "Don't leave me, Larry," he whines, squeezing his fingers awkwardly.

"I'll be right back, I'll be right over there," he nods to the bathroom door. "I'm not leaving."

"Promise?"

It takes a few tugs to free his hand. "Promise. Right over there."

  
  


When he comes back with a wet cloth and a glass of water, Freddy is lying grey-faced, vacant-eyed and so utterly still that if Larry couldn't see the thin chest jerking up and down with each uneven breath, he would have thought he was dead. His eyes focus when he wipes his face, pupils blown wide and lids heavy, and dirt smears across his skin. The kid really needs a shower and it might make him feel better, but it also might be too much, so he sits him up enough to get his shirt off, coaxing his arms up so he can pull it over his head. His back's healed up nice at least, mostly scarred over now, and it'll probably fade to smooth in a year or so, like it was never there at all.

He's pretty filthy, more than a damp cloth can handle, and a shower's looking like a better idea, especially with how cold and clammy he is. Freddy whines when he swings his legs over to hang off the bed, blinking at him slow and dumb and a little cross-eyed, much too trusting as he reaches out.

"Come on tough guy," Larry says, heaves him upright with a hand under each arm. He half-carries him into the bathroom and feels like ten kinds of pervert unbuckling his belt and undoing his fly, then feels like an idiot kneeling on the floor to undo his shoes so he can get his jeans off. Freddy's not wearing socks and his shins are bruised, he grips Larry's shoulders with both hands and sways weakly, knees locked, while the ragged old canvas sneakers are pulled off his feet.

"Come on," he says, reaching around him to turn on the shower, "you'll feel better once you're clean."

"M'clean," he says, "m'always careful."

There's nothing he can think to say to that, so he just kisses him on the forehead.

The kid can't even stand up, he just stares at him while he slides down the shower wall, knees folding underneath him in slow motion and he'd pitch forwards if Larry didn't reach in and catch him. Water's going everywhere, he's half-soaked already and the night can't get much stranger, so he kicks off his own shoes and trousers, props Freddy up with one hand while he unbuttons his shirt and throws it into the sink, and steps under the spray. Water splashes out all over the floor before he manages to slide the rickety plastic door over, but at least he's not worried about flooding the bathroom now. The cubicle's barely big enough for them both, they're chest to chest and he can still feel his shoulderblades almost brush against the tiles.

"Stay with me, kiddo," he says, and he responds by slumping against him, face tucked into the crook of Larry's neck. He's scrawny, but he could be the same height or even slightly taller when he stands up straight, not that Larry's exactly tall. Freddy's narrow, hasn't filled out yet (he's so goddamn young), and he wraps both arms around the fragile body and stands there under the water, skin to skin, hair plastering itself down over his scalp, and tries not to feel relieved. This is not the kind of thing anyone should be happy about, but he's here and he's all right and maybe he'll stay a while this time, provided Larry doesn't fuck it up again.

God, he thinks as he lathers soap onto the slim shoulders, please don't let him fuck up again.

  
  


After the shower, Freddy sits on the lid of the toilet wrapped in one towel while Larry scrubs his hair dry with another. His eyelids are drooping and the few words he says are slurred, but he's warm and clean and no longer shivering or twitching. He's got a few scrapes and bruises but nothing serious. The marks on his shins turn out to just be dirt, and what's left of them smears off into the fibers of the towel, gluey like tar or oil while he's rubbing at his legs and feet. There's a moment where he's worried he's hurt him, Freddy jerks his foot away suddenly and makes a high pitched noise.

"Shit," he says, "sorry, sorry, what's wrong, show me."

The kid's pink-cheeked and kinda smiling, looks better than he has all night, better than he usually does even. "That tickles."

Getting him back into the bedroom and into a pair of sweatpants is easier than it was getting him out of his clothing and into the shower, he seems more alert, almost manages to walk without stumbling. Larry throws the towels on the floor to soak up the puddles, figures he'll sort it out in the morning, and keeps half a pace behind Freddy, hands out in case he starts to fall.

  
  


"Stay?" Freddy whispers as he pulls the covers up over him, fingers catching at his wrist, "don't leave me, please."

Larry has absolutely no intention of leaving and he tells him this, sits close by his side and holds his hand, tells him he's gonna be okay. The hand tightens when he shifts.

"Don't leave me, Larry," he says, voice thin and high.

"I ain't going anywhere, you just relax, try and sleep it off."

Freddy tosses his head from side to side fitfully, mouth shaping silent words while he reaches across with his other hand.

"What is it kiddo?"

"Will you," gulp, blink, "will you hold me?"

Fuck. "Yeah," he says, and it might be a bad idea but he doesn't fucking care any more, he's refused this before and lived worried sick for weeks, reasoning too thin to cling to for comfort, and it's not even about him in the end. Freddy needs someone, needs him, and he's not gonna fail him again and watch him stumble out of reach just because he's being a fool over his goddamn age. They'll talk about it, they'll sit down like the adults they both are and lay their cards on the table, but not now. Right now he peels back the comforter and crawls in, and the kid's grabbing for him before he's even fully lying down. He arranges them so he's on his side with an arm stretched out and Freddy's on his back, head on Larry's bicep and one leg sliding between his knees.

They lie there together in the dark, raggedy breathing the only real sound apart from the distant hum of traffic as occasional headlights slip across the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," Freddy says suddenly, "I'm sorry Larry."

"Shh," he says, "get some sleep."

He's too worked up, "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry," he repeats, keeps saying it over and over while Larry combs his fingers through his hair and tells him it's fine, it's all right, it's gonna be okay.

"I'm so sorry Larry," he says, presses his face into his chest, not quite crying but starting to veer close, tiny bubbles of hysteria rising in his voice.

Fuck, he'd been hoping to do this in the morning but apparently it's happening now, so he squeezes him close, "it's okay, shh, you got nothing to be sorry for," keeps stroking his hair, rocks him back and forth, "you ain't done nothing wrong, we're gonna sort it all out, it's okay."

"I stole forty-four seventy-five, I'm sorry, I thought you were gonna send me to jail."

"No, kiddo, Freddy, no," he says, "I wasn't mad about that, I woke up and you were gone."

"You were gonna get rid of me anyhow."

"I was gonna try and get you some help, that's all. And if you think I'm letting you outta my sight after this, well, think again," he says, tracing one finger down his cheek. "You're stuck with me."

Freddy laughs, weak but genuine, and lets Larry hold him close and kiss him.

  
  


Eventually, the kid's breathing evens out and his grip loosens, and Larry can feel himself drifting off too. It's been a long day, preceded by a long couple of months, and he's not naive enough to think it's gonna be easy from here on out. Still, he thinks, brushing his fingers through his hair one last time before settling down to sleep, it's a good start. Freddy sighs and nuzzles against his chest.

It's a real good start.

  
  


It's late when Larry wakes up, stripes of light through his blinds already taking on the yellow warmth of midday. He's rolled onto his back but Freddy's still curled up close, head on his shoulder and one arm across his chest, fingertips hooked over his collarbone like he's clinging to a ledge. Larry squeezes the shoulder under his hand, he wants to pull him closer and hug him tighter, wrap both arms around him so all the kid can feel is warm skin, but he also doesn't want to wake him up. He's had one hell of a night, he can sleep for as long as he needs. Still, he can't help pressing his face into the sandy hair and kissing him.

The fingers curl tighter, and the head slowly lifts up.

They stare at each other for a moment, then Freddy reaches out and very deliberately prods Larry in the cheek.

"Hey, what was that for?" he says, and flicks the tip of his nose. He's not sure what kind of response he expects, but it's not for the kid to fling himself over his chest, almost clocking him on the chin.

"You're really here this time," he says into Larry's neck as his arms close around him automatically, one hand on the back of his head and the other across his shoulders, "you're real."

What the fuck? "Of course I am."

He mumbles something, burrows closer, lets him arrange them so he's stretched out on top of him, bare chest to bare chest, one hand under his cheek and the other curling by Larry's ear. The weight is comforting, like being grounded, and the kiss on his neck is sweet, like being forgiven.

"Get some more sleep," he tells Freddy, "I'm not going anywhere."

"You promise?"

"Can't go anywhere with you holding me down like this, kid," he tells him, lifts his hands up in submission while the kid laughs and grabs for his wrists, pushes them down into the pillow as he shuffles up a little, hovering uncertainly over Larry. He's caught somewhere between cute and handsome, soft features of youth vanishing in the cast shadows of the man he's growing into, dumb long surfer hair falling in his eyes and a crooked smile forming on his mouth. Slowly, he dips his head to kiss Larry, soft and gentle and brief.

"I'm not a kid," he says, "I'm a tough guy."

"Yeah," Larry tells him, voice going thick and a weight in his chest that has nothing to do with the body on top of him, "yeah you are."

  
  


Pink comes over in the early afternoon while Freddy's lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and dutifully sipping water from a coffee mug with a mostly worn off logo for a local radio station. He's been dozy and slow, quieter than usual, but he perked up at the mention of food so he's definitely almost back to normal. Pink's wearing the same clothing (plus shirt) as last night, looks like he hasn't slept but he's cheerful about it, good for him, and he's carrying Freddy's backpack in his non-damaged hand. Larry's out of the room for a few minutes, can hear low sober voices but no words while he pulls the sheets off the bed, though when he's walking back he hears him say "but I'm keeping this."

Freddy laughs, and Larry glances through the doorway in time to see an orange bandana vanishing into Pink's pocket.

When Larry comes back in, he's standing up to leave, so he walks him out to the hall and pulls the door partly closed behind them.

"Look," he says, but Pink holds up a hand.

"I know you never would've told anyone. It wasn't about that."

He looks sad standing there picking at the sleeve of his jacket, young and uncertain, painful echoes in his face of the rookie he was seven years ago, another kid he half-failed. Larry wants to reassure him but he's got no idea where to start or if it'd even be welcome, if it's too little too late. He wants to ask why, but he doesn't want to do it in the hallway of his apartment building, and he doesn't want to pry where he's not welcome. "It's okay," he says.

One day they'll talk more about this, but not right now. Right now, he pulls him into a hug, waits out the few seconds of stiff shoulders and then squeezes tighter when he finally relaxes into it. "You're a good kid, like I keep telling ya."

Pink laughs, barely more than a huff of air against his shoulder. "I hate doing the right thing. You're a bad influence, Dimmick."

"That's my boy," he says, and hugs him tighter.

"You better go see a doctor about that hand," Larry tells him when they've pulled apart. "It ain't looking too hot."

That's an understatement; his ring and little fingers are mottled purple and the knuckles are swollen. "Yeah, that's my next stop."

"You okay to drive?"

His gaze slides sideways, off Larry's face and down towards his own shoes, grin stretching at the corners of his mouth no matter how he tries to fight it, and oh this is fascinating. "I got a lift," he croaks, embarrassment clearly battling how fucking pleased he is with himself.

"Well," he says, claps him on the shoulder, doesn't even bother trying to stop his own smirk, "better not keep him waiting."

Pink tells him to go fuck himself and stomps off down the stairs, but he's also smiling.

  
  


When Larry walks back into the living room, Freddy looks up at him expectantly, then hurries to make room on the couch so he can sit down. As soon as he's settled, the kid crawls into his lap and drops his head to rest on his shoulder.

"Are you gonna talk to the person at your work, about me? About finding me somewhere to stay?"

"If you want," he says carefully. "It's up to you."

"Can I stay with you? If I get a job, I mean. A real one." He looks so damn hopeful, wide-eyed and soft-mouthed. Larry shifts him closer, arms around his waist, and lets him rest his head on his shoulder.

"Maybe, I don't know." Freddy's face falls. "I'll always be here, but there might be something better for you."

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

_ That's sad _ , Larry thinks but doesn't say it. Instead, he says "I'm sorry about before, at the police station. I shouldn'ta yelled at you like that. I'd been so damn worried and then you showed up looking like hell and," he pauses, takes a deep breath, "I was just so scared."

Freddy doesn't say anything, but his hand comes up to rest on his chest, almost at the neck of his t-shirt, almost touching skin.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before the hand moves from Larry's chest to his neck, then around and up into his hair, fingers tangling through the coarse strands and nails dragging lightly across his scalp. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle, Freddy's warm thumb slides up the soft skin behind his ear, and when he glances down, the kid's staring up.

"Hey," he says, "what's up?"

Freddy grins, slow spread of a smile lighting up his face as he twists, stops so close that Larry can feel his breath on his lips.

"Hey," he says back and kisses him, licks at his tongue, teeth scraping lightly on his lower lip. Immediately he shuffles closer, then sits up and straddles his lap, arms winding around Larry's neck. Larry's hands grab for his waist, then move around to his ass, thumbs hooking into his waistband to ease his pants down a little at the back, just far enough that the elastic settles in the crease at the top of his thighs. Freddy hums happily into his mouth when he squeezes the bare flesh, grinds back against his hands.

"You don't have to do this," he says, "you don't owe me anything."

Freddy grins down at him, one hand in his hair and the other undoing the button on Larry's jeans. "You think I don't wanna do this," he says as the zip slides down. "I wish I came out and did it last time, instead of leaving." His hand rubs his dick through his underwear.

"I wouldn't have let you," he tells him, and then admits, "but I would have wanted to."

"You'll let me now," Freddy says, voice confident but his hands go still, pull back a little so just the fingertips touch. Larry hauls him close and kisses him.

"Yeah, now it's different."

Freddy grins and slithers down to the floor, kneels between his feet and tugs at the waistband of Larry's jeans, works them down slowly as he obligingly raises up a little. Once they're down around his ankles he only manages to get one foot free before Freddy's shoving his legs apart and pressing his face against his hard-on, forearms on his thighs and hands slipping up the leg holes of his boxer shorts. He rubs his cheek up and down the length of Larry's cock, breathes hot air through the thin fabric and mouths at the head.

He does this for a while, Larry runs his hands through his hair and murmurs to him how good he is, how crazy he's making him, just enjoys watching the kid tease him. Finally, fucking finally, he eases his underwear down and wraps one hand around Larry's bare cock, grins at him as he licks the tip, then takes it in his mouth.

"You better be careful with the teasing," he says, and Freddy looks up at him, lips stretched around the head of his dick and tongue rubbing the underside. He's fucking gorgeous with his hair falling across his forehead, cheeks flushed.

"Such a handsome boy," he says, cupping his jaw, scrubbing his fingertips through the barely-visible stubble. His eyes light up and he resumes with enthusiasm, one hand working Larry's cock while the other's braced on his thigh.

It doesn't take a long time before his hips are twitching upwards, hand gripping tight in the fine sandy hair as that hot wet mouth slides up and down his dick. He keeps telling Freddy what a good job he's doing, how he loves how he looks on his knees, how he's next and Larry's gonna tease him right back, though eventually he's just telling him  _ I'm so close _ and  _ just like that _ , and finally coming hard. The kid takes it all, swallows, and keeps licking at his softening cock until Larry pushes him away. Then he sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth across the back of his hand, grinning like he's just won.

"Come up here," he says, holds out his arms, and as soon as he's within reach, throws him down on the couch beside him, flat on his back with his legs across Larry's lap. It's easy to see he's hard through the loose fabric, and he gasps when Larry puts his hand over his cock, just holds it there while he tries to rub against it, shirt riding up to expose his stomach. Freddy reaches for him, grabs at his shoulders and pulls him down to kiss, and moans into his mouth when Larry finally starts slowly working his dick through his sweatpants.

"I could make you come in your pants," he whispers to him, plants sucking kisses up his neck to his ear, "would you like that?"

He doesn't answer, but his cock twitches very definitely under Larry's hand. Interesting. Maybe another time, he'll do that.

This time, he lifts the waistband and pulls them down around his knees, can't help pausing to just loom at him for a moment because he's so fucking beautiful, he's so happy, he's warm and safe and  _ there _ . Freddy notices him staring and grabs his arms, tries to pull him down close, blush creeping across his cheeks and down his chest. One day, he'll tell him how he looks, maybe do this in front of the bathroom mirror so he can watch himself, so he can see. Not today though, he just swats his hands away and leans out of reach.

"Hands behind your head," Larry tells him, then amends with "or whatever's comfortable."

"Kinky," he smirks, but he does it, lies stretched out on the couch, sweatpants shoved down and t-shirt shoved up, cock bouncing as he arches his chest under Larry's hands, panting breaths pitching to a whine every time he brushes over his nipples. His feet dig into the cushions as he tries to push his hips up, and Larry pushes them back down, leans close over his groin, close enough that he knows the kid can feel every breath he's taking, and tweaks both nipples at once. His red-flushed cock twitches and Freddy moans "please Larry," as they both watch a drop of precome fall from the tip onto the pale skin of his stomach.

Larry slides the foreskin back, grip carefully light with just his finger and thumb, and licks roughly over the tip. Freddy almost wails, hands fisted in his own hair and arms crooked over his face.

"Please," he says again, voice cracking, "I'm fuckin dying here."

As much as he'd like to make him beg, make him ask for exactly what he wants, make him say  _ please suck my dick, Larry _ , he knows they've got time for that. Now, he takes pity on the kid, takes as much of his cock as possible into his mouth and presses his thumb into the base, just above his balls. He doesn't start slow, just gets right into it, rubs his tongue over the silky smooth crown every time he pulls back, teases at the slit. His other hand strokes over his stomach, up to his chest and back down, touching as much of him as possible. Freddy's shifting now, jerky little motions, muscles tightening in his legs and abdomen, making soft high noises until he suddenly goes still and silent, cock pulsing on Larry's tongue as he comes. When he glances up, he can see the kid's got both hands crammed over his mouth.

Once he's licked him clean, he sits back to survey his handiwork. Freddy's a wreck, staring at him kinda cross-eyed, but he grins and tugs at his arm.

"Come here," he says, clearly intending to just pull him over on top of him, but Larry nudges him onto his side and settles behind him, snags the blanket from the floor and pulls it up over them both, tucks it in around Freddy. He's kicked off his sweatpants the rest of the way and struggled out of his tangled t-shirt and now he presses back on Larry, back to chest and ass against his soft cock, their legs bending together. Idly, he thinks he'd like to fuck him like this one day, hold him with one arm and work his dick with the other, bite the back of his neck and whisper dirty things in his ear. Right now, he just kisses him and hopes things will work out better this time.

They've got time.


End file.
